A Journey Past Cursed Mountains
by Samuel412
Summary: A short Cosmic Horror set during the War.


I was but twelve years of age when the War reached my village. At twelve, I was as eager as all the other boys in my village, indeed in all of Vacuo, to travel to the front lines and join my father in fighting the advancing Atlesian menace. But we were too young- a fact deep down I came to understand when a boy three years my senior told me as much, while himself lamenting that he was not permitted any more than I. And so, for six months following all the men and a fair few women in the village leaving, we had no knowledge of the War, save for stories of the valour and courage of those fighting for Vacuo. This changed abruptly on a particularly cold day in Autumn, when Atlas forces reached the village.

It was a particular shock to me, as I assume it was to all the other children, for all the stories we'd been fed of battle-lines being held. We had heard the rumbles of cannon fire and artillery on occasion to the south, but had been reassured that they were the sounds of the Atlesians being beaten back. How foolish we were for believing our starving and ill-trained armies could stand against the engine of Atlas, and how foolish our parents, for sparing us fear even as the wolves closed in!

I was awoken by the ground shaking, accompanied by the cacophonous roar of an explosion, louder than I believed possible. I learned later that this was the sound of the village's Dust stores being ignited by artillery, killing a third of all the people I had ever known. My mother rushed into my room, urging me to get up. I asked what was going on, and she told me the truth for what I now believe was the first time in months: Atlas had been sweeping swiftly towards us for weeks, and now they were here. She stammered as she explained what I was to do, for she could not hide her own fear any longer. She pressed a bottle of water and a small sack of bread into my hands, and told me I was to hide in father's hidden cupboard in the basement. She said I was to wait there as long as the food would sustain me, and I should only come out when the world outside had been long silent.

The last I ever heard of my mother was her whispering that she loved me as she closed me within the cupboard. As the door swung shut, I caught a glint of metal in her hand, that I recognized to be father's pistol. For the next few hours, I heard strange and terrible things above. Gunfire, screams, and yelling between soldiers. More explosions. Then, for what felt to be almost an hour, silence, save for an occasional barked order to march. Then, the gunfire started again, but it was different this time. It emanated from the edge of town, near the main gate, and never moved from there. And there weren't volleys of shots, but one shot after another, almost rhythmically.

 _Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang._

Then, more screams. More hails of gunfire, and unearthly roars. A different kind of monster had been drawn in. Atlas had bested Vacuo's men, but now they faced Vacuo's Grimm. The roars of nameless abominations lasted for hours, even as the gunfire bit by bit petered out. I remember smiling in dark satisfaction. I felt a sense of pride in Vacuo- even if we fell to Atlas, we had survived in this land of monsters, while they had grown arrogant hiding in their land of ice. I revelled in this bitter hatred until I heard something rather large thrashing about upstairs. Struck by fear, I turned my thoughts to my mother, hoping to drive the negativity away.

For two days I sat in that cupboard, though the food didn't last past the first. In time, my stomach pained me, and I found I could bare the hunger nor the cramped isolation any longer. Opening the cupboard door, I stole upstairs, half hoping to see my mother in the kitchen, waiting for me. Alas, there was only destroyed furniture, and large claw marks left in the walls. There was still food in the pantry. I filled a rucksack with it and left.

The village was devastated. A nightmarish ruin was all that remained of my home. Houses were destroyed, the cobblestone paths torn apart, piles of ash still smouldering. I saw smears of dried blood, and among the debris, I saw or perhaps imagined shapes that looked like they had once been human. I walked to the village's main gate, not calling out for anyone, for I didn't want to draw the attention of men nor beasts.

Outside, I found where the Atlesians had brought the people of my village. Running alongside the main road was a row of bodies, all laying face down. The row did not quite reach the gate, instead terminating in a large, hastily-dug pit. More bodies lay within. I looked away in terror. Not all the bodies in the pit were face down, and I was chilled at the prospect of recognizing any of them. In the distance, I saw movement. An Atlesian airship, flying uncontested through the sky. It was much too far to spot a lone surviving child, and seemed more interested in scanning the ground beneath it with its searchlights.

I began to whimper, knowing I would soon be wailing. I would wail and wail until the monsters sensed my pain and came for me. It took me several seconds to notice the stirring within the pit. Abruptly, the bodies shifted as a large black mass rose out of the pile, crawling up the opposing side of the pit. I was stunned into silence by the sight- not just for the fact that the thing was Grimm, but that it was a form I had only ever heard about in campfire stories. My mother had quite severely scolded the boy who had told me of the Morticians, and she had insisted to me that such creatures were mere myth.

The thing was several meters in length. Its six legs were spindly, like an insect's. The legs terminated in sets of gangly fingers, knotted and twisted, yet clearly capable of intricate movements. The body was worm-like, yet covered in a sort of carapace-like armour, so black it all but shined. The white spines were so long and thin they appeared as long hairs, running down its back. I did not realize it was a Mortician until it looked at me, and my blood ran cold. Its mask covered the entirety of its elongated face, giving it a permanent macabre grin. Its eyes were mere slits, which curved upwards in a way that suggested a strange lack of malevolence. To see such an abomination wear a mask of apparent serenity was no comfort at all.

We stared at each other, the creature and I, for several seconds. Perhaps, I thought, my mother had told the truth. This unusual beast was no Mortician, but an unfamiliar form of Grimm whose shape called to mind a children's ghost story. If that were the case, the beast would simply strike me down. But alas, the thing turned away from me, and gingerly picked up the nearest body to the edge of the pit with its two foremost limbs. My stomach turned as I watched a process that, when described, had given me recurring nightmares in my younger years.

The Mortician spun the body about in its fingers, spinning it like a spider would a captured insect. From within its hands, slimy black tendrils of Grimm flesh were wrapped around the body. The Mortician was slowly coating the body in this substance, tightening the limbs to the sides of the body. The Mortician, so the stories said, would not eat the body. Nobody knows why these strange Grimm-forms perform this ritual. If the substance the Grimm was wrapping around the corpse was cut or damaged, it would vanish into nothing, as all Grimm tissue does. The Mortician would leave the wrapped body where it had found it, and go searching for another corpse. And here it had found many corpses to satisfy its vile practice.

The thing placed the body down in its tight black cocoon. It turned back to me, staring at me with those expressionless eyes and terrible grin. It seemed almost to be asking me for judgement of its work. I stared back, not moving. If I were not so shocked as to lock up my every muscle, I would have been sprinting back to what remained of my home, screaming in madness. Eventually, the Mortician stepped over the wrapped body, and grabbed up the next one in line.

I do not remember my thoughts at that time. I only remember turning away from the nightmarish thing and walking away. I walked along the outside of the village's walls, and started northeast as soon as my path was unobstructed by the ruin of my hometown. I walked until I was panting in exhaustion, and only when I turned back and saw for sure that the town was hidden by the horizon behind me did I allow myself to collapse and weep.

When I had cried until my eyes burned, I searched my thoughts for what to do next. Why had I travelled northeast? There had been intent in that direction, that much I knew. I also knew that the mountains to the northeast had many paths, and some lead to the sea. Atlas had first attempted to invade Vacuo through these paths, rather than from the beaches far south. I remember the whispered rumours between myself and the other children about the lone Atlesian soldier who had reached our village, many months ago. We whispered to each other that the adults thought he'd come through those mountains. Nobody knew what had become of his company, nor was he a useful source of information on Atlas's forces, for he had gone hopelessly insane. He never spoke, only gibbered nonsense, except when he rambled in his sleep. If this sleep-talking ever offered anything coherent, the adults of the village took care to hide it from the children. Atlas later abandoned their attempts to traverse the mountains.

Atlas' front lines were between me and the capital city. If I were caught, perhaps there was a place in a prison camp or in a pit for me. If I was to get past the invaders, I would have to skirt the mountains where they dare not go. I set off towards the moantains.

I saw not Grimm nor Atlesian for the first day of my journey. The Atlesians, I surmised, were drawn to Vacuo's villages and cities, where they could bring destruction down on more families. The Grimm were drawn to bring destruction on Atlas and Vacuo both. Perhaps there would be few such obstacles in my path past the mountains. After all, no known village had ever been settled closer to the mountains than my own. The name of my village was an old Vacuon word, meaning "To stand on the edge of a void." Perhaps the Grimm had no reason to infest this area, with no humans or negativity to interest them. Perhaps even the Grimm feared these mountains. I dismissed this thought quickly, as it did not make the mountains seem any safer.

I slept little that night, spending more time wrapped in a thin blanket, weeping. My mind took steady, deliberate steps reminding me of each person in my village who I would never see again. I saw my mother in the dreams of my sparse sleep, and wondered what had become of her. Had she died in defiance of Atlas? Had she been on her knees in that row, in the end? Had her body since fallen into the clutches of the Mortician?

I resumed my travels in the morning. I estimated as I walked that it would be a three day journey to reach a village past Atlas' lines, assuming they were not advancing faster than I could match pace. To the east, the vast mountains seemed to stare down at me with cold indifference. What beasts from the sea did those mountains hold back? What twisting maze of inescapable horrors did those great stones hide within them?

I spotted the man just past midday as I crested a hill. He was wandering, with no apparent direction at all, about the plain ahead. From a distance, not much detail could be seen of him. He was dishevelled, bearded by several days growth, and dressed in a uniform of some sort. He hadn't any pack, or a weapon to be seen. I stared down at him, his ignorance of me affording me time to consider if I should approach. Could he not be a survivor of my village, just as I? It was when he fell to the ground, with no external influence, and began wailing that I deemed him unlikely to be a threat.

He became aware of me as I came near. He bolted up to his knees, and raised his hands, desperately shielding himself. I could see up close that he was delirious from hunger. I pulled the pack from my back and began to offer him food when I saw something else. The muddy brown of his clothing was not its natural colour, but was the colour of the dirt and filth coating Atlesian white. I thrust my hand into my pack and withdrew a knife- a simple, sharpened piece of steel from my mother's kitchen. The soldier saw the knife and fell backwards, moving to crawl away.

"Lecherous, cowering dog!" I cried, "If you come to our lands to fight us and kill us, stand and fight me!"

I have little confidence in my ability to taunt, for the man was already in a crumbling, pitiful state. He rambled, and spoke nothing coherent but weak pleas. This man had been separated from his company for some time, this much was sure. He seemed to be attempting to direct my attention to the mountains. Fury at the horrors his compatriots had wrought on my home consumed me.

"I should kill you for the crimes you've committed!" I declared.

The man placed his face down to the dirt, and grovelled. His rambling madness reminded me of the soldier who had stumbled to our village those many months ago. He had stayed in the lone jail cell in the sheriff's office for just over a week, when news had come back from the front-lines. A young man from our village had been killed in battle, heroically standing alone, sword in hand, against twenty Atlas soldiers. None took the news harder than the man's wife of just two years- a beautiful, kindhearted young woman who worked in the bakery. That night, she had crept into the maddened Atlesian soldier's cell and stabbed him to death in his sleep. Such rage against any wearing an Atlas uniform, even one who was not themselves the cause of grief, eluded my understanding then. It did not now. As this man begged me on his knees for mercy, I considered plunging the knife into his exposed back. Instead, I reached into my bag again, produced a stale and partially eaten bread loaf, and tossed it to the ground in front of him. Then, I warned him of following me, and pressed on. When I looked back several minutes later, he and the bread loaf were gone.

I slept that night in a bramble of trees, closer to the mountains than at any other point on my journey. Their cursed shapes loomed behind the trees, and I felt a great sense of dread for them that at the time I could not explain. My mind wandered to more campfire horror stories, telling of the Grimm growing all the larger and more terrible as one travels further from civilization. Why then had I seen no Grimm yet, save for far-off Nevermores?

I was awoken in the middle of the night, and the first thing I saw as I opened my eyes was the shattered form of the moon. It cast a pale blue light down on the world, just barely bright enough to illuminate the trees. The mountains were opaque shapes in front of the star filled sky. I heard the sound of something nearby, rummaging about. I at first thought it was a Grimm, and that perhaps my end had arrived. But then I heard a faint whispering, which I recognized initially as the rambling madman from the village. It was childish fear of ghosts that first propelled me up, out of my blanket, and face to face with the crazed deserter from earlier that day. He had been searching through my pack, shoving anything edible into his mouth while whispering his mad drivel.

My fear turned to bafflement, and just as quickly to anger. I drew my knife, for I had kept it by my side while I slept, and held it at arm's length. The madman pulled an apple from my pack and threw it at me. The apple bounced off my head as I pounced at him, thrusting with juvenile lack of form. He grabbed hold of me and tossed me against the trunk of a tree. As I fell to the ground, fumbling for my knife, I saw something that made my blood run cold. The entire bramble of trees was surrounding by pairs of glowing red eyes.

I could not see their bodies in the darkness, nor did they make any sound. The Grimm were simply watching us, and I could not shake the feeling they had had us surrounded for some time. The madman was shouting now, roaring nonsense about the mountains. I begged him to stay quiet, which was foolish, as the Grimm could quite clearly see us. Just as I found my knife, he took hold of my leg and began to drag me from the bramble.

"Her emissary waits for us in the mountains," The man said, "She watches us through his eyes."

I shouted and pleaded for him to stop. He was dragging me towards the mountains, and to my shock, the Grimm in our path stepped out of his way. I grabbed at the hand gripping my leg, desperately trying to free myself from whatever horror he was dragging me towards. I thrust my knife at his fingers, and he let go, crying out in pain. He stumbled away from me, staring at his hand in shock. For just a moment, he appeared almost lucid, as he stared in disbelief at the blood dripping from his fingers. He looked about himself and saw the burning red eyes that surrounded us. He froze in fear for a moment, and I took this as an opportunity.

I pulled myself to my feet and charged the man. I thrust my knife into his gut, and my momentum knocked him backwards. I thrust my blade into his chest over and over, barely hearing the howls of the Grimm around me. I crawled up the length of his body and, in a fit of rage, stabbed my knife into his neck. He sputtered blood, silently begging. The ground around us was shaking. I felt all my anger pouring out against this man who had killed my family, who had burned my home. I screamed at him, uncaring if the Grimm around us tore me apart. They would not kill the Atlesian, for I would ensure he died by my hands first. Still, the ground rumbled and shook, as if under the influence of a great earthquake.

I looked around, and to my shock, saw that the Grimm were gone. They had fled, howling, as I stabbed the man to death. I became aware of the shaking of the earth, and looked towards the mountains. My first realization was that the range had changed- an unfamiliar peak had appeared among the others. It was impossible that I had not seen it until now, for it all but dwarfed the mountains around it. To my disbelief, the unfamiliar shape began to move. The entire daunting mass was undulating and shifting. As it moved out of the shadow of the mountains, the moon illuminated not stone, but a wall of black flesh.

I remember nothing after this, save for my screaming, and desperate fleeing. I do not remember running the entire night, nor if I saw any other Grimm as I did, but I remember running until first light of morning, only collapsing at the sight of an approaching Atlesian patrol.

I spent the remainder of the War in an Atlesian prison camp. I never found out what happened to the other children from my village. If the wardens of my camp were to be believed, the intent of Atlas was to rescue Vacuo's children from the harshness of the war, and prepare them for life in a new Vacuo, made grander by its service to Atlas. I was among the many prisoners of war quietly released after the Atlesian invasion failed.

I've spent the last thirty years in Vacuo's capital, eking out what life I could. I am a man of 44, now, though I've aged prematurely- mostly from drink. I sometimes meet those who are curious about my time in the war, the life I lived as Atlas approached my home, and my time in the camps. There are still many secrets, it seems, to be learned about the treatment of prisoners during that time. I have done what little I can to shed light. Many express their sympathy for my hardship, yet I have found no one who will believe my account in full.

Grimm behaviourists and Huntsmen alike dismiss the idea of non-hostile Grimm. I have yet to find any proponent of serious academic study of the creatures who believes in the existence of the Morticians, let alone will give thought to my account of the thing in the mountains. Historians dismiss my claim of the failed attempt by Atlas to navigate the mountains, and say a lack of natural resources is the reason that cursed range is avoided to this day. But I know what I saw that day, as I have seen in my dreams and waking nightmares since. The forces of darkness in this world are far greater and more powerful than we know, and behind their inky black forms and piercing, animalistic red eyes, lies a dark intelligence, filled with hatred and lusting for our destruction. And perhaps some part of me knows, as did that wild man I met on my travels, that it is more than a mind, but a personhood. I see her in my dreams, looking down on us, as from some hidden fortress. I have yet to learn her name. Perhaps someday, the world will learn it, as only those who have gotten close enough to her to go mad already have.


End file.
